Ken Ichijouji and the Case of the Divine Miss I
by El Juno
Summary: Things are tough all over. So when Ken Ichijouji, Private Eye, is offered a case by a mysterious woman, he jumps at the chance. But things are not all they seem...(Yaoi, Yuri, eventual violence, and silly AU...) (Chapter 3 now up)
1. The Tale Begins

Since I saw episode 50 of 02, I figured that some sick freak who'd watched too many film noirs in their childhood would take the opportunity to write a "Ken Ichijouji IS Sam Spade" fic. Just never figured it would be me.  
  
Consider this my apology for not posting anything in...forever. It's the beginning of what looks to be a longish, strange fic, with more bad references and general weirdness than you can shake a stick at. It's un-beta-ed, a fact I figure Thornn will never forgive me for, (and, seeing as my computer is messed, it was spell checked via livejournal...) but it's not angst, which might help me get back in her good graces.  
  
And I don't even think I need to say it'll have Yaoi(*cough*Daiken*cough*), Yuri and general strangeness, not to mention being a general AU.  
  
And, without further ado, I give you "Ken Ichijouji and the Case of the Divine Miss I" part 1.  
  
*******  
  
It's half past nine on the kind of rainy Monday morning that makes you wonder if the gods REALLY do hate you, especially when paired with the fact that you begin to wish for a dictator because Mussolini DID make the trains run on time, when I finally make it into my office.  
  
My secretary is already in, which does nothing to help my mood. I take the fact that she's absently painting her fingernails the same lavender as her hair as an excuse to take out my anger by mentally docking her pay.  
  
"Mornin' boss." She slurs around a mouthful of gum, without even bothering to look up at me. "There's a lady ta see ya."  
  
"Lady?" I ask, slowly.  
  
She nods and blows a small bubble, which pops with the unexpected force of a gunshot. "Real looker." She mutters. "I think she has a case for ya." She looks at the backs of her hands, then nods happily and closes her bottle carefully before starting to blow over the nails to dry them. Her digimon, knowing its purpose in life, flies over to expedite the process with flutters from its wings.  
  
Some days I pity that bird. Not today, though.  
  
"I don't take cases from dames, Miyako." I growl. "And why in Hell did you let her in?" My own little digimon, sensing a possibility of a truly disastrous blow-up, moves slightly from his spot on my shoulders and nuzzles my neck comfortingly.  
  
Miyako is a suicidal bitch. I've known this from the first time I met her, when she was working for the mob and undercutting them on every deal. She acts true to form right now, as she grins and pops another bubble. "One." She grins. "She is a REAL looker. I almost swallowed my gum."  
  
"And two?"  
  
"We have a mutual friend. Mr. Jackson. And these days that's more than you're giving me."  
  
Added to that earlier comment is the fact that Miyako is a suicidal, corrupt little bitch. This might be one of the reasons I like her.  
  
"What kinda case are we talking about?"  
  
"I dunno. Didn't ask. That's your job." She gives the kind of grin that makes me want to pull out my piece and shoot her right there. Then, she moves her hands out from under the digimon, and Poromon settles back on her lap allowing her to return to her typing. Then she looks up slyly and grins. "But...she looked like she might have some real money, Ichijouji."  
  
My sigh is cut off and I begin to move back past her to my office. On the way by, I happen to catch sight of the paper she's typing.  
  
It's a resume.  
  
Things are tough all over, I guess.  
  
When I open the door, all I can see is the dame's back. She's sitting in one of my chairs, her long legs propped up on my desk. And...those legs...hell. I'm not really a lady's man (I leave that kind of thing to Miyako...) but...hell, she is a looker. Those legs seem to reach on to forever, the kind of shape that would make Fermat create a new Theorem. She slowly stands and turns and...well. Those legs are part of quite a package, leading up to a tight red dress which appears to have been painted on, nails and lips the same red, and long, slightly wavy blonde hair frames a pale, heart shaped face with a complexion like new paper.  
  
I hate her immediately.  
  
She looks me over slowly, then takes a long drag off her cigarette and blows a smoke ring towards me.  
  
"Ichjouji..." She begins, in a low voice, huskier than a sled dog.  
  
"No smoking, sister." I growl. "My secretary should have told you that."  
  
She gives me the kind of grin that would make a straight man's pulse go over the speed limit. As it was, I found myself becoming surprisingly uncomfortable. Then, slowly, with the seductiveness of a snake, she wraps those lips around the butt for a last drag before grinding it out in the pot of my very dead plant.  
  
I swallow, quickly, and make my way past her to my desk. She "just happens" to brush against me as I go past, and I catch a hint of lavender perfume. Settling myself in my creaky chair, I ask, "So, lady, what're you selling?"   
  
She gives that grin again, and my stomach tightens slightly. Very strange. Then she leans over my desk, putting herself too far into my personal space, and raises an eyebrow. "I'm trying to sell you the chance to make some serious dough. What do you say?"  
  
"I say continue."  
  
She reaches down into her bra, very carefully I note, and pulls out a dog-eared photograph and hands it to me. "My...friend." She whispers again, in that voice. I begin to wonder if it's intentional, or if she just has some form of throat cancer...either way, there's something strange here.  
  
"Yes?" I ask, taking a look at the snapshot. It's a wild-haired man, standing in a soccer uniform...something's trying to fire off in my brain, but not quite clicking.  
  
"He's missing." She says. "I want you to find him for me. He left a few weeks ago and I need to finish some business with him."  
  
I raise an eyebrow. "Okay, sweetheart." I begin. "First you should know that I don't usually take cases from dames..."  
  
Her eyes twinkle like exploding supernovae at that. "Oh, I know." She says. "You...prefer the company of men." At that, without even a "if you please" she grabs the photograph of Daisuke off my desk and holds it in her hands, slowly considering it. "However...I'm willing to pay double if you wish. Money is no object as long as I can see him again."  
  
Triple. I think. I don't trust you at all...not that that's unusual in my line of work. "$75 a day, plus expenses. And two days up front...$250 when I solve the case. And if this gets me into any sort of trouble I don't want to deal with, I leave, no refunds given."  
  
She smiles again, and reaches back into that bra of hers...quite well packed, it seems to be...and pulls out three crisp fifties. With exaggerated care, she drops them onto the desk, one after the other. "If he's unhurt, I'll give you a bonus. $200 extra. I really miss him..." And then, slowly, she stands up with the exaggerated grace of an egotistical ballet dancer.  
  
I reach for the money, then stop. "Hey, sister. I didn't catch your name."  
  
She looks down at me through her eyelashes...quite a trick, that...and adjusts her bra as she thinks. "Call me...Miss I." She says.  
  
"Miss I. Well, that's great. I can just go look that one up in the Yellow Pages. How am I supposed to tell you when I find him?"  
  
"I'll know." She says with a knowing grin, and then she blows me a kiss and glides out, leaving only a reek of lavender purfume and bad French cigarettes. Through the door, I can hear Miyako practically breaking her typewriter as "Miss I" goes past her. That girl's got to learn some control.  
  
I lower Wormmon to the desk top (he learned by now which snowdrifts of papers are safe and which are not...) and light my cigarette. Wormmon sneezes, but I don't really notice. "Shit." I growl. "Miyako? Has the divine Miss I left yet?"  
  
"Was that her name?" Miyako breathes in a dreamy voice. "Miss I...how wonderfully mysterious."  
  
"Answer the question, dollbaby."  
  
"Yeah, she left. And don't call me 'dollbaby.'"  
  
"Shit." I repeat, then stand, picking Wormmon up as I go. "I never got the name of this guy I was supposed to be looking for. Just this damn photograph."  
  
"Let me see." Miyako says.  
  
I frisbee the picture to her. She starts laughing almost immediately.  
  
"I'm docking five bucks from your pay for every chortle!" I shout. "And what in the hell is so funny, anyway."  
  
"You don't know who this is? You REALLY don't know who this is?"  
  
"Sure I do...but..."  
  
"Oh my god, you don't, do you!" She laughs uproariously at that.  
  
"You've just gone below minimum wage!" I warn her.  
  
"You LIVE with goggle-boy, and you have no CLUE who this is!"  
  
I storm out to glare at her, glares being much more effective when the party in question can see them. Of course, when the party in question has taken off her glasses to wipe away tears of mirth, it doesn't help much.  
  
"Spit it out, sister." I growl.  
  
"Don't call me sister." She says, angrily, but then she starts laughing again.  
  
"Miyako..."  
  
"Ask Daisuke." She says, then starts to laugh again.  
  
"And may I just take this opportunity to thank you for working for free this week?" That shuts her up quickly, and I grab the photo from her hands. "Come on, Wormmon." I say, settling him back on my shoulders as I leave.  
  
******  
  
Next...Motomiya Daisuke, short order cook, the man upstairs, and the case begins to twist. 


	2. Greasy Spoons and Angels

The now-beta-ed version. I think things work a little better now, in general.  
  
And thank you to Thornn, both for betaing, and for telling me that it IS a bad idea to get a tattoo of the Seal of Rassillon.  
  
********  
  
The diner is actually called the "Greasy Spoon," not a ringing endorsement by any stretch of the imagination. Surprisingly, they seem to be one of the cleanest estalishments in the city. I even have it on good authority that they groom the rats once a week.  
  
Inside...well, it's like some form of hamburger-smelling hell...the lights are always a touch too bright, the sounds too loud and the smells...grease. I can deal with a lot of things, but, like water torture, it could drive someone crazy.  
  
Someone like Daisuke Motomiya. Don't get me wrong here...I love him to death (no matter how crazy he is, or tedious at times, or how much he can cost me, or...) but...he's mad as a wet hen. He almost constantly finds ways to remind me of this.  
  
And every time I bring it up, he tends to ask me if I consider myself a shining example of sanity. Bastard. He's a gorgeous bastard, though. And a wonderful one.  
  
He's working at the grill as I walk in, standing with his back to me, hair half-slicked down with sweat (the other half is as crazy as ever...which is as crazy as every other bit of him...) and apron tied tightly to his waist. His digimon, Chibimon (and that name is incredibly accurate as well...) is sitting on the counter contentedly gnawing on a cookie, guarding a smallish pile next to him, looking shockingly like a dog with a biscuit. Three pats of meat are sizzling on the grill...I can't fucking STAND that smell. It makes my stomach turn like nothing else. Daisuke comes home some nights smelling like that...and...  
  
I put Wormmon on the counter next to Chibimon (who immediately lights up at the sight and hands another cookie over to Wormmon. Never let it be said that digimon don't act like their people) light a cigarette to cover the smell and take a long drag. Daisuke turns from the grill, looking like he's going to yell, but when he sees me his face lights up like a streetlight at dusk. "Ken! Sit...what can I...no coffee, right? No, no, tea. Black. Only person I know who'd drink tea in a diner..."  
  
"This isn't a social call, love." I say, but I sit as I'm saying it. Daisuke sets a saucer at my elbow for an ashtray...that could get him in trouble. His boss (who's also his sister...) doesn't like patrons smoking. Come to think of it, she doesn't like me much in the first place.  
  
At this point in my life, she's in damn good company.  
  
Daisuke happens to catch me peering around as he returns with hot water. "Jun's out today. Don't worry." He says. "Wait." Daisuke runs back and throws those patties onto buns, then puts them on plates off to the side. "Order up!" He calls, and the waitress runs up to grab the plates. She gives me a glare as she passes...damn. I'm getting too used to that.  
  
Everyone here has their own reasons to hate me, though. Long term ones. All Daisuke's fault, of course. ALL Daisuke's fault.  
  
"So..." The man in question is leaning over the counter looking right at me with the tiniest grin running around his lips. "What are you here for?"  
  
I grin at him. "Don't you even TRY to tempt me, Dai." I say, then take a long drag off my cigarette. "I have a case."  
  
He raises an eyebrow, then gets this LOOK in his eyes. The little warning lights go off in my head, and I remember both why I usually don't discuss these things with him...which also happens to be one of the major reasons his friends hate me. "No, Daisuke. You can't come. Leave the bat at home."  
  
"But Ken..." He reaches out a hand like he's going to stroke my hair, but I avoid it...if nothing else, the thought of that smell on me for the rest of the day isn't one I want to deal with.  
  
"NO!" Then I put down my cigarette on the saucer and reach for the cup. It tastes weird...I look down. Just hot water. I look up, eyebrow raised, and watch as embarrassment turns his cheeks slightly pink.  
  
"Right. Teabags. Hold on." He turns back to the cabinet over the grill to rummage.  
  
At just that point, the waitress comes back and slams an order slip on the pin with the kind of force that could easily shatter mountains. "Order!"  
  
"Hold on, 'Kari." He turns back and drops the teabag in my cup. "Ken, make it..."  
  
"DAISUKE!"  
  
"Hold on, what do you..."  
  
Kari comes up and looks at him, hands on her hips. She doesn't get angry easily, in my experience. This could... "We have customers, Daisuke. Talk to him on your own time."  
  
"Sweetheart, this is business." I tell her, and watch as she starts to get the kind of look that I associate with Miyako, right before she starts breaking things. Especially before she starts breaking things I never thought could break...like oak doors, lamp posts, granite curbs and parking meters.  
  
Daisuke tells me, often, that 'Kari's actually a very sweet woman. I can only really assume that all this means she must hate me with the intensity of a thousand burning suns.  
  
She looks over at Daisuke, who's looking at me and doesn't seem like he's about to go right back to work and sighs, powerless against the flow of reality. Quickly she grabs the burning cigarette from the saucer and grinds it out. "You have a minute." She says "And I'm not leaving this spot until Daisuke gets back to work."  
  
I nod, then pull the photo out of my jacket and hold it out to Daisuke, who wipes his hands on his apron before taking it from me. Hikari, curious in spite of herself, leans in to look, too. I swear even Wormmon and Chibimon are peering in, but I don't want to break out of this to check...if nothing else, it would probably take time, and I trust Hikari with that "one minute" thing.   
  
Hikari gasps, then grabs the photo from Daisuke's hand. Then she looks up at me, angry and sad at once.  
  
"Ken Ichijouji..." She says, slowly, "Why do you have a photo of my brother?"  
  
I give her a glace, then pull my cigarettes out of my pocket and light one...damn regulations. Even if it wasn't for the smell, I need something to calm my nerves. She wrinkles her nose like a rabbit, but she doesn't say anything...surprising, that.   
  
"Your brother?" I ask, slowly.  
  
"Taichi. My brother. Why do you have a photo of him?"  
  
"He's my case."  
  
"...you?"  
  
That was not a kindly "you." That was a "you" somewhere between disgust and pity...like what someone would say to a small, very dirty child who'd just declared themself her boss. She really does hate me, I think.  
  
Well, I didn't get into this business to be liked.  
  
"Yes, me, darling. Why not me?"  
  
She takes a deep breath, then picks up the order from the counter, shoves it into Daisuke's hand and points him towards the grill. Daisuke actually gives me a guilty look as he's turning, but he goes back to work nonetheless. Hikari walks closer to me, and leans in as if she was about to share the formula to turn lead into gold, but the look on her face is actually softening. "Ken..." She says, slowly. "I don't really...I don't want...I don't...I mean, you got kicked out of the police. Why should..."  
  
"You know the reasons behind that, Hikari. And I'm on this case..."  
  
"But you aren't."  
  
"...yes, I am, Hikari. I've been hired for this."  
  
"Who hired you?"  
  
"Friend of your brother's. She didn't give me a name...she just called herself 'Miss I.'"  
  
"Miss I?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Never heard of her."  
  
"Well, maybe..." I stop before I fall into something I don't want to deal with...I don't really want to push this newfound kindness of hers any further than it should go, and quickly say, "She's the one that hired me. I can't say anything more."  
  
"You can't?"  
  
"No. But if you..."  
  
"I have someone looking out for this already, Ken."  
  
"Who?"  
  
She smiles and looks up. "The Angels."  
  
Great. I never knew she was a religious nutjob. "Well, that's great, 'Kari." I say, slowly. I've learned you don't mess with things folks like that. I have a few scars that can tell you that religious sorts can be the most dangerous. "But maybe...well, this is my case, too."  
  
She sets the photo down and, with exaggerated care, turns it towards me. I pick it up and put it back in my pocket "Well, just don't get in their way. And finish your tea and leave. If nothing else..." She actually seems to glitter at me...something like stars, or light on water. "You need to get on your case, don't you."  
  
I raise an eyebrow, but swallow my tea, quickly. "Come on, Wormmon." I say, picking him up. Chibimon grabs one of his feet as I lift him, but he falls back to the counter. Fortunately, like cats, digimon always land on their feet. Or, more accurately in this case, his behind, but he isn't hurt.  
  
Daisuke turns and smiles at me. "See you later, Ken."  
  
I put money on the counter. "Bye, Dai. I'll see you later."  
  
And then I walk outside, back into the apparently everpresent mood-setting rain. 


	3. Standoff at High Noon

And now we have the third chapter. I don't think this one is as funny as the other ones, but it's needed.  
  
And if YOU think that this is taking too long, just think of what it must be like for the characters...the first two chapters, together, probably made up around two hours and a half (it's 9:30 am at the beginning, and it's noon at the beginning of this one.) I'd say that this one takes up around half and hour to an hour. At best, we're dealing with 3 and a half hours so far. Ken is NOT getting that well paid for all this legwork...  
  
*****  
  
It's around noon now, and the rain has started to fall as heavily as bombs in a blitzkrieg. When we left the Greasy Spoon, Wormmon was happily riding on my shoulders, but (again, like a cat) he doesn't really enjoy getting wet. I jump below the overhanging roof of a little newspaper kiosk to pull him under my jacket and drip dry for a few moments. Of course, the vendor stares bullets at me until I throw him a nickel and grab the top paper off his pile.  
  
Someone, or a group of someones, has been bringing thieves...the actual words in this rag are "to justice"...while keeping their identity secret. They don't ask for any money, any reward, any anything, and no one knows their identities. Do-Gooders. You know I hate them, if only because they tend to make the lives of people like me a little more difficult.  
  
The vendor is starting to give me his killing look again, so I slip Wormmon down into the crook of my elbow, protected by my jacket and leave, making certain to throw the newspaper in his direction as I go. I'm not bad, really. It's just I don't like being rushed, especially when God has decided to piss rain down over the city. I head...  
  
Well...  
  
There's an old truism. Stop me if you've heard it..."It's not what you know, it's who you know."  
  
It's at least half bullshit, at least in my line of work.  
  
What you know is pretty much the most important thing. You need to know where to start, how to go about things, and, most importantly, how to put the pieces together. Of course, it's also important to know people, but it's more important to have a number to choose from, and then you have to figure out which ones to ask which questions.  
  
Of course, maybe I just discount informants because mine are second-to-none. Well, second-to-some, but CLOSE to second-to-none.  
  
And, of course, speaking of informants and who you know...  
  
Hmmm.  
  
Let's hope he's not on a lunch break. He never used to take them at sane times, but you never know...  
  
The police station is close enough to walk...good thing, that. I hate the idea of another train ride today. Of course, on a day like this, "close enough" is a relative term, meaning something like "close enough that you don't collapse." I walk in the front door definately drowned-rat looking, but not wet enough that you'd believe I'd fallen in a river. I drip dry in the entryway for a few seconds, making a mental note to buy an umbrella at some point, school my face into what Daisuke's started to refer to as the "asshole" glare and head straight back to the door marked "Chief". The look does what it's supposed to...while several beat cops start to make motions to stop me, none of them try to complete the operation.  
  
I open the door like a hurricane and blow in, closing it carefully behind me. Of course, he's there...the man never learned the fine art of the lunch break. He looks up at me then almost groans, his face a Rembrandt-perfect picture of frustration.  
  
"Ichijouji." He sighs.  
  
"Hello, Iori." I shoot back, slumping into one of his "guest" chairs.  
  
Way, way, way back when, back when I was the asshole behind the badge, Iori Hida was my partner. My second partner, if you really want to know. The bastard really IS a Do-Gooder type, but we still tend to get along...well, "alright" is a bit of an overstatement. It's better to say that we're something more than acquaintances, something less than friends. Of course, on the other side, the man stood between me and murder back when I was getting my sorry ass shown the door.  
  
And, no, you DON'T want to know if I would have been murderer or murdered. Hell, I don't think I know these days.  
  
"What do you WANT, Ichijouji?" He asks.  
  
"What, you don't think this is a social call? Maybe I just woke up this morning with a burning need to see your pretty face."  
  
He rolls his eyes, which is actually a good sign. Last time I tried that joke he slammed his hand in a door. I just shoot him the most guileless smile I can manage and light up a cigarette.  
  
"Those things are going to kill you, you know." He says.  
  
"With the way things are going these days, they'd better hurry up if they want to be first in line." I respond.  
  
"Good point." Iori's actually gotten MUCH better with my jokes recently, strangely enough. Back when we were partners, he reacted to every one like I was punching him in the face. Of course, back then I wasn't telling them as often, and they weren't nearly as sterling. Just call it a side effect of losing the uniform.  
  
I reach into my jacket and jostle Wormmon out from under my jacket onto my lap...I looked like I was in my 6th month or so, which is not good for my manly pride. I remove my hand, pulling out that damned photo and hand it to Iori in one smooth motion. "Taichi Yagami. Discuss." say.  
  
"What about him?"  
  
"Anything of note. He ever murder anyone? Got any bad enemies? Too many overdue parking tickets?"  
  
"Do you honestly think I know everything about everyone?"  
  
"Actually, yes. Everyone of note, at least. But if you can't tell me, I at least want access to your files."  
  
"...Ichijouji..." Iori sighs.  
  
"Look, this guy is my case, and I need to know as much as possible if I'm going to be able to do my job."  
  
"And I need to do MY job, as well, and currently that includes having several people looking into him."  
  
"His disappearance? Why can't we help each other out?"  
  
"...He's missing? Since when?"  
  
"A while, I presume, since it's gotten bad enough to warrant someone hiring me to find him." Suddenly those words penetrate my brain...dammit. This got too...I look up as slowly as I can, and take a long, thoughtful drag off my cigarette. "Wait a second. What do you mean 'he's missing'? What are you interested in him for, if not his disappearance?"  
  
"It's police business, Ichijouji."  
  
"Police business. Right. Come on, you can trust me."  
  
"I could once."  
  
"What the bloody hell do you mean?"  
  
Iori drums the photo on his desk and looks at me with tightened lips. "Three months ago..." He begins. "Three months ago you came in and asked me for permission to use our files to help with one of your cases. I said 'no', if I remember correctly. But here's a funny thing...I came into work the next day and someone had obviously broken into the file room. You had your case closed within the week."  
  
I carefully school my face into my most guileless mask and take a drag off my cigarette, carefully resting my other hand on Wormmon's head. The impression I'm going for is innocent Madonna...innocent Madonna with burning fag, of course. Iori doesn't seem taken in, though...he stares at me for one of those seconds which seems to go on for hours (and not in a fun way) and then continues. "Not that you weren't good at it, Ichijouji...you were. Very much so. If I didn't know the kind of things you do...those little tricks you've been pulling for years...I wouldn't have suspected a thing."  
  
"I took that son of a bitch all the way down, though. And you didn't have to lift a finger."  
  
"You could have risked so many investigations that..."  
  
"But I DIDN'T, did I? I just saved you some work."  
  
"And lined your own pocket, I presume."  
  
"Not as much as I might have."  
  
"So what exactly happened, then?"  
  
I lean as far back in the chair as I can without toppling. "My mother didn't raise the kind of fool who'd spill his secrets to the police chief."  
  
"And my mother didn't raise the kind of fool who'd give access to a dangerous mercenary."  
  
"I'm not as mercenary as all that."  
  
He presses his lips into a tight line again. He's always been tenser than a steel band. I think he needs a nice, long vacation. Or just to get laid, either one would do. "I notice you don't challenge 'dangerous.'"  
  
I give him a slow grin...it's the kind that could put a thin skin of ice on water. Even down, below where I'd assume that it's visible, Wormmon shivers and looks up at me. "At least..." I begin, as coldly as I can. "At least I'm dangerous and I'm on your side."  
  
"You know as well as I do that you're on no one's side but your own."  
  
"If that was so, I'd have availed myself of the nice little price Miyako's old bosses have put on her head by now. You know about that one, right? It's a very big number...and I always seem to have money trouble these days..."  
  
Iori drums his fingers slowly, then looks down. For a second, I almost fancy he looks guilty, or maybe possessive. I've always suspected that my dear ex-partner carries a very heavy torch for my even-dearer secretary.   
  
He looks back up. "You might be on someone's side, but it's not the side of the police. I'd even venture to say that it's not always the side of the law."  
  
"Then what side am I on?"  
  
"I honestly haven't the slightest clue. I don't know the first thing about you, Ichijouji."  
  
"Iori, for a guy I've never slept with, you know an absolute metric shitload about me. On the list, you're behind Daisuke, maybe one ex-lover, and Miyako."  
  
"That might have been true once. But there are rumors these days."  
  
"There are always rumors."  
  
"These ones are different."  
  
"They never are."  
  
Iori waves his hand dismissively, then sighs. "Back on track...how much are you being paid for this case, Ichijouji? I'll double it."  
  
"Hida, you could rob a bank and not have enough money to get me to drop this."  
  
He looks as flustered as a wet cat. Or maybe a wet digimon. "Listen...listen. Ichijouji...Ken...this is different. Just...just drop it."  
  
"You know, you're the second person who's doubted me today..."  
  
"I'm not doubting you, Ken. Just the opposite, in fact." He pinches the bridge of his nose like he's feeling a headache coming on.  
  
"Christ...if you don't doubt me, then tell me..."  
  
"I can't."  
  
"Well, then. Fuck you, too." I grab my photograph from where he's been worrying it incessantly.  
  
"Dammit, Ken, you have absolutely no clue what you're getting into."  
  
"If I really have no clue, then tell me..."  
  
"If I tell you, you'll already be in too deep."  
  
I rub the side of my nose slowly, then begin. "Just give me...ten words. Ten words and I'll leave."  
  
"Ten words?"  
  
"Yeah. That's all I'll need. Come on, Iori, you're a good guy...you always have been..."  
  
"Listen, Ichijouji..."  
  
"I'm going to find out anyway." I say. "And when I do find out...well...if it's THIS dangerous, then finding it out for myself will be even more dangerous, no?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Just ten words. Come on, Iori."  
  
"Five."  
  
"Fine. Five. I'll take five."  
  
"And you'll leave then?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And I won't find my files broken into again?"  
  
I spread my arms as wide as I can to show my sincerity. "Of course not."  
  
"Fine. Five words."  
  
I point my fingers like a gun. "Go."  
  
"The Order of the Seven Stars."  
  
"...excuse me?"  
  
"Your five words. 'The Order of the Seven Stars.'"  
  
I nod, slowly. "And that's all I get?"  
  
"That's all you get."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
I lift Wormmon, then stand up again, feeling uncomfortably wet in places which were touching the chair seat. My cigarette has been forgotten for so long that it's just gone out, and, after a second's consideration, I just fling the butt into the wastebasket. I get to the door, get half out, then turn and give my most demonic grin. "Iori?"  
  
He looks up from his work. "What?"  
  
"That was six words."  
  
Then I leave. 


End file.
